


my heart pains me, a man drawing horses

by orphan_account



Series: The Birth Of Iron [1]
Category: Battle of Tollense River c. 1250 bce
Genre: Gen, Human Sacrifice, Languages and Linguistics, Mythology - Freeform, References to Ancient Greek Religion & Lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:21:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21982858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: South of the bend in the river, there is a shaking in the sea.
Series: The Birth Of Iron [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1585591
Comments: 6
Kudos: 9





	my heart pains me, a man drawing horses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ellen_fremedon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellen_fremedon/gifts), [Island_of_Reil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Island_of_Reil/gifts), [Hokuto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hokuto/gifts), [yuuago](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuuago/gifts), [greerwatson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/greerwatson/gifts), [Measured_Words](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Measured_Words/gifts), [mayhap](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayhap/gifts), [sophia_sol](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophia_sol/gifts), [Siljamus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Siljamus/gifts), [Fells](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fells/gifts), [Ahsurika](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ahsurika/gifts).
  * Inspired by [sheep into the plain](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8397700) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account). 



It is said that when Ehodu received his son the Immortal back from many toils, he did not recognize him. The Immortal came back in the night, when the torches did not properly illuminate his face. It is said that Ehodu stood at the palace he had built at Isaaq’a, jewel of its own island, jewel of its own sea, and swore at the Earthcracker. “When will I have repaid my good luck?” he cried. “Will you give me no more fruit, Lord of the Sea?”

He had sacrificed a white horse on the steps of the palace to hear of the thing’s approach, but the evil spirit that looked like the Immortal would not go away. Its blood stank after a day outside.

“Leave,” he shouted, gesturing to the horse’s innards. “Kingly Horse, my Anaxitho, I have killed you a thousand times! Let me end my mourning! Stop torturing me!”

Those watching were unsure if they should be more stunned by his blasphemy or what had brought it. Even the priestess, a sloe-eyed teenager quite used to dealing with ambiguous matters, could not help but look down into her palms, away from weeping Ehodu. It was, of course, a sin to reject what the gods gave you, good or bad, whether you felt you earned it or not, but surely Ehodu had had _enough_. Enough beautiful and good, enough horror and bad. The priestess thought sometimes that Ehodu would be happiest if he fled the palace and went to carve out his days fishing for his supper. Then again he’d probably pull up the treasures of the Mother of the Sea on his first catch, or watch his boat be swamped the moment he took off the anchor. It is said that Ehodu had started to go mad.

The evil spirit that looked like the Immortal said “Daddy, it’s me.” The evil spirit was just as frantic as Ehodu; it didn’t seem to know it was weeping. “Daddy, I promise.”

It is said that Ehodu slipped on the steps of the palace, slipped on the blood of the horse as he ran down to destroy the shade that torturous Earthcracker brought to him, and that the evil spirit that looked like the Immortal broke from his captors’ arms and caught Ehudo, and that then the people saw, the priestess saw, that there was no evil spirit. There was Ehodu, _Anax-Isaaq’aoi_ , Lord of Isaaq’a, and there was Anaxitho the Immortal, who’d been a man but barely last he’d been on his father’s shores, and the years did not deny that.

It’s said, anyways.

//

Mereuka wasn’t there when Anaxitho Qelemakos came back. Or she was in the palace, definitely, but she’d been asleep. She’d heard a lot of tales about Anaxitho Qelemakos, the Immortal. The only one she knew to be true that Ehodu had had the epithet of Qelemakos, and previous to his death Anaxitho had taken it. There had been two Qelemako at once, which was quite strange. A man did not share titles. A man made himself unique before the gods. A man such as Ehodu, Lord of Isaaq’a, bowed to no one but the Earthshaker, who tormented him for the sin of being blessed by the Earthshaker, and yet he’d given his name away, not had it earned from him but _given it,_ given it to a son. For nothing! For quite a time Mereuka called this clear evidence that her grandfather had indeed been senile. Her father, and her other uncles, they didn’t much like the return of Anaxitho: as pleasant as they found the return of their older brother (at least the ones who remembered him found him pleasant), they all knew where he’d been. They had killed his name so many times; indeed, Mereuka’s earliest memories were of watching the horse sacrifice, putting Anaxitho back among the ancestors after yet another troublesome dream crept into poor old Ehudo’s head. And then he’d come back from the dead. More grotesquely, he’d come back from slavery. Her uncles glanced among themselves, hissing between their teeth.

But an oldest brother is an oldest brother, and as Mereuka aged she began to see the wisdom of there being two Qelemako. Ehodu Qelemakos Anax-Isaaq’aoi, anyone could mix that with Anaxitho Qelemakos Isaaq’aoi, think they were one and the same. And maybe you thought Ehodu Qelemakos Anax-Isaaq’aoi was a man carrying a heavy burden, but he still ruled from the palace, the jewel of its own island, itself the jewel of its own sea. He had won the title _anax_ , soon after the unfortunate loss of his son in a raid; he had built the palace himself, on the bones of the old _anax._ And he had lost a son, but he had many of them. And he killed the richest of horses on the basis of sad dreams, but he had so many rich horses, both bred and collected as plunder, that he might not have missed any. And he had, ultimately, won the tests of bounty given to him by Enaysdawon, He Who Broke The Seas. Mereuka’s uncle was immortal.

She didn’t see him very much.

She was fifteen now, ten years past the coming of the Immortal. Ehudo Qelemakos Anax-Isaaq’aoi had died seven winters previous. Her father had been oldest living but for the Immortal. When he’d died, her mother had been given as wife to Anaxitho. Her mother had been blandly stoic about this, as she was about most things. Her mother was from Reuq’a and had been the daughter of a second wife of the _anax_ ; her mother was used to being traded. At this point, Anaxitho had a three-strong collection of his brothers’ wives. Mereuka didn’t need to listen to the gossip, her mother said it frankly: they all had children, and Anaxitho, being the Immortal, seemed not to care very much about a direct line. No one minded it. “I hope you’re as lucky,” her mother said.

Mereuka said, “Mama, you are so cynical.”

Her mother said, singsong, “Love doesn’t _exiiiiist_ ” and then she laughed and Mereuka laughed and they sat in the cool marble innards of the palace, weaving. Mereuka did not need luck, her sister Anemoa had been offered a high bride-price with a strategic prince down on Tafos, and she had shrugged and taken Mitowitho instead. Mitowitho had status, yes, but as the son of a subordinate _anax_ on Isaaq’a, and the prince of Tafos had been irritated but the Immortal, cross-legged on his high seat, gave his assent without blinking. And there had been a great feast. Anemoa was old to marry given her status, and Mitowitho young to have her, but her mother said that was fine, the babies would come easier. Aside from the usual sacrifices, Anemoa killed a horse for her nuptials; no one said it out loud but as much as it was for Enaysdawon, it was for the Immortal, who lived in the palace and presumably did a lot but was as unseen as a ghost or the Wind Spirits. Love could exist for Anemoa and presumably love could exist for Mereuka.

Right now what existed was the priestess, standing on her tiptoes and hauled on her elbows over the palace balcony. The priestess wasn’t the priestess who had been present at the coming of the Immortal. That one had died prematurely, of the same cough that took Ehodu. This one was older than Mereuka but not much, probably not older than Anemoa. She wore a golden veil around her mouth, spun of sea-silk, and she left her hair unbound because she was married to all the gods and yet none of them. Mereuka hauled over next to her, for something to do; she had done all of her weaving and it was quiet on Isaaq’a, quiet in the usual boring way of summer. She liked the priestess, who didn’t have a name. The priestess didn’t feel much different than her cousins or the other teenagers at the palace, except that she didn’t have a name and she wore the sea-silk veil. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” the priestess said; she tucked a tuft of black hair behind her ear. She was looking north, to where Reuq’a shimmered on the horizon. The sea burned blue, and so did the sky. “Everything is bountiful.”

“Right.”

“Did you need something?”

“Do you want to go for a walk?”

The priestess hopped down from the balcony and grinned. “To the beach?”

Mereuka grinned back and danced on the toes of her sandals. She loved swimming with the priestess. Men weren’t allowed to look at her naked without getting their eyes gouged out, so they’d get the best coves to themselves, and then no one could scold Mereuka for her lack of modesty.

They clattered down the stairs of the palace and came out into the gardens. The gardens bled into the forest, and if you slipped down the north path properly, going through the grove of the sacred myrtle, you’d find yourself right on the beach. They did that, into the copse that held the ancient myrtle, and for a shocked moment Mereuka thought someone had broken into the sacred grove to dirty it, but then she kicked herself and cast her eyes down, as was proper. After some long moments with no acknowledgement she darted a look at the priestess, who had a hand under her mouth, under her veil, gnawing her knuckle. The priestess caught her eye and shrugged, looked straight again. “Good day, Lord Anaxitho,” she said, in an excessively polite tone.

It was funny to hear _anax Anaxitho._ Like a stutter. Mereuka dared to look up, figured she needn’t have bothered daring. The Immortal looked like her father but thinner. He kept his black hair long, and braided, and he fastened it with a golden coil, and he was playing nervously with the coil. He shaved his beard, like a priest, or perhaps to look younger. He had no gray in his hair, as of yet. It wasn’t that hot for an Isaaq’a summer, especially not here in the shade of the grove, but he dressed like an overheated child, in sandals and a dark red linen tunic with the silk-trimmed sleeves cut nearly to his shoulders.

“We will take our leave, Lord Anaxitho,” the priestess said, “and leave you to your – ”

“No,” said the Immortal, “no, it’s good you came. I was about to come look for you.”

“I’ll take my leave,” Mereuka said, slightly disappointed; they’d have to put off swimming.

He looked at her. She hadn’t been this close to him in years. He didn’t come to feasts; he hadn’t been to Anemoa’s wedding feast, other than to watch the nuptial sacrifices. He had very dark eyes, framed by very long lashes, and she found herself strangely jealous of them; her lashes were short and stubby and made her eyes look a bit too big. Everything about him was dark, except for the shining gold coil.

“Mereuka,” he said. “Yes?”

“Yes, Lord Anaxitho.”

“Am I married to your mother?”

Mereuka could not help glancing at the priestess, who looked like she was about to laugh.

“Yes,” she said, gently, as if talking to an insane person. Which she probably was. “Ithalia Reuq’aia. She was the wife of your brother Ambistrato.”

“How old are you?”

Mereuka said, “Fifteen springs.”

The Immortal tugged on his braid at the coil. “Where were you going, Mereuka?”

“To the beach,” Mereuka said. “We were going to swim. At the Cove of the Moss-Cave Nymph.”

“Tafos raids there,” he said.

“Not for two decades, Lord Anax,” the priestess said. “It’s fine.”

The grove went dead quiet and Mereuka nearly choked on her utter horror, but the Immortal merely let his breath out on a long shudder and said, “It’s good you came before you went to the cove.”

The priestess bit her knuckle behind her veil again.

“I have had dreams,” he said, “of before I came back, and I don’t think anyone should be going down to the cove now.”

“Should we discuss these dreams, Lord?”

The Immortal looked at the priestess, and then suddenly he looked at Mereuka.

“I was fifteen too,” he said. “Please don’t go to the cove, girls.”

And then he left. He left the shade of the sacred myrtle, the ancient one, and clattered down the path towards the shore. The priestess clicked her tongue and she wasn’t Mereuka’s friend anymore, she was the Priestess, and she would not go down to the cove as a girl slightly abusing the powers of her office, but she would go to advise the lord of Isaaq’a. She left without saying a thing. Mereuka stood under the myrtle, her stomach churning. Quietly she knelt in front of the myrtle, to apologize for cutting through its grove, and then she fled up back through the gardens. She had no weaving to do, but she did it anyways. She clustered herself in the center of the palace, near the great basin that caught the rainwater, and tried not to think of much. _Qelemakos,_ that came into her head; it meant the far-warrior, the one who traveled. The implication from Ehodu was that the warrior had meant to do it.

//

The next day Enaysdawon spoke. Not very loud, but he did: Mereuka fell off her bed, and she could hear echoing clatters from the halls. A few chairs fell over, and a serving woman complained about a dish breaking. Mereuka, after lying stunned on the floor for a moment, collected herself and went to look in her jewelry. She found a pair of pearl earrings she didn’t wear anymore, and the next day the priestess stood where Ehodu had once stood. The priestess sang to all her husbands, who were the gods, and she sang to her sister wives. The plaza before the palace hummed with silent human watchers. The priestess said in a kind voice to Enaysdawon the Earthshaker that they’d taken too great advantage of his generosity. The priestess praised him for how wonderfully he’d been a husband to Isaaq’a, jewel of its own sea. The bull led onto the steps of the palace had been fed a soporific tea and it was led drowsily onto the pyre platform, where the treasures from the palace were heaped: Mereuka’s earrings, her mother’s third-best khiton, a glass dish imported from the south, other thoughtful presents from the household. The priestess said to Enaysdawon, Father of the Sea, Cracker of the Earth, to take his fill. The bull’s throat opened under her knife, and then the crowd watched, mouths watering, as it dissolved to ash under the summer sun.

On the high dais, above the priestess: the Immortal, dressed in a long linen tunic and headdress dyed so strongly in blue murex that they were almost black.

Mereuka looked at him askance and felt odd. The smell of burning meat did not bother her, but it was a bull, and she had known to find pearls. Enaysdawon had spoken louder and more ferociously without a bull being involved. She caught her uncle’s eye and hurriedly looked down at the crowd. Her legs were exhausted from standing so straight for so long.

//

The summer wore on.

Mereuka and the priestess did not go to the cove; they went to the beach to pick shells, but they were followed by guards, hemmed in. They swam instead in a river to the east of the palace, and the priestess had to wear a linen dress because it wouldn’t be fair to the young men coming to get water. Mereuka’s mother received word from Anemoa of a pregnancy and decided that Anemoa would move back into the palace for the last two months of it. Mereuka did not see the Immortal again. Nor did Enaysdawon speak. Presently the river-swimming became more an annoyance than a precaution, and both she and the priestess got bored with it. Instead they sat at the rain-catching pool, playing string games, playing harps. The summer trade season held fine. She went down with her cousins and some nobles’ children to the fair at the east edge of the island, and they bought fabulous delicacies. A delegation from Reuq’a visited on some pretext and she was obligated to meet a distant cousin for some sort of attempt at setting a bride-price, but really the Reuq’aio wanted to see their own sister Ithalia. Mereuka rode in a chariot across the island with two of her uncles and her mother to visit Anemoa and Mitowitho, and she stood on the balcony of the palace watching the ships roil in with the priestess. Like all summers, it was pleasant and beautiful, bountiful ad sunny, faintly boring.

And yet.

The priestess didn’t have a name, and she had the veil to be inscrutable. Certainly men found her inscrutable, but that’s because at their heart of hearts they’d read her first as a teenage girl and second as a wife to all the gods and none. She wasn’t inscrutable at all. Mereuka couldn’t say anything about it and didn’t want to; her friend seemed worried enough. Besides, it wasn’t her place. If the priestess was worried, it was over things concerning the Powers, the World Beyond, the Breath of Life that flooded through every leaf on every plant and swelled every drop of water in the sea. Mereuka wasn’t arrogant enough to think she could assist there.

And then one day, hot, late, hesitant: “Do you remember your grandfather?” 

Mereuka raised one shoulder. “I think I remember him fine enough,” she said, “but everyone tells stories about him, so I’m not sure which memories are mine and which ones are stories. Especially the ones from when I’m very little.”

The priestess nodded, accepting that. “The oracle of Maq'a, the one at the place where the priestesses are trained, said he was the luckiest man in the world.”

“And the unluckiest too, I have heard,” Mereuka said.

The priestess pulled her lips to the side. “I think,” she said, “I think maybe it was not the _best_ idea to let Anaxitho have the name Qelemakos while Ehodu Qelemakos was still alive. You get me?”

Mereuka said, “Politically it was smart.”

“Oh, yes, but I’m talking…overall. It’s passing on a part of his spirit, to share that name. You get me?”

Mereuka crossed her ankles over each other and thought.

“Yes,” she said, “but maybe – if Anaxitho is like Ehodu, and he’s both terribly lucky and very lucky indeed, perhaps that was before he received the name, if you get _me._ ”

“I’ve considered that,” the priestess said. “That’s also a possibility. And it’s a possibility that the lucky-unlucky has washed out in a more linear fashion, to be a slave and then _anax._ But there is the possibility that sharing the name has intensified what is already there.”

She bit her knuckle.

“Anaxitho hasn’t sired a child,” she said.

“Maybe he has,” Mereuka said. “He was gone for ten years.”

“But those would be illegitimate,” the priestess said, “they wouldn’t be Isaaq’aio and eligible to take the palace after he goes to the stars. Which is beside the point that he didn’t.”

Mereuka leaned in close; what she said next could be an insult punishable by death, though she was sure if overheard she’d just be slapped. “Is he _sterile_?”

“No,” the priestess said. Her face flickered. “Least, if he is, he doesn’t know. It’s not that, why he hasn’t sired a child. He told me the known reason and it's just terrible.”

“He keeps getting wives through my uncles dying,” Mereuka said, suddenly understanding. “It’s difficult to be so lucky and so unlucky at once and he doesn’t want to pass it down.”

“That must be it,” the priestess said. “Or it might not be. Whichever. But his highest-ranked wife is Ithalia, your mother, and he’s your father now that Ambistrato is gone, so either Mitowitho or their child will be _anax_ after him. Or your child, I guess, if something happens to Mitowitho.” She shrugged. “Perhaps that’s the best way.”

“Is he cursed? Was my grandfather cursed?”

“I have no idea,” the priestess said. She whistled through her nose and drew her legs up to hug her knees. “I think it might be the opposite. I think it’s just very difficult to be favored by the gods. If terrible things happen to you and you survive them, then you’ve done a test and won it, and can have an epithet. It’s difficult becoming a priestess, and you have to give up a lot, but the gods favor all of us. The oracle at the priestess-training place who speaks to Maq’a, She Whose Bones Are The Earth, she’s blind, and she has to be blind or she’d die from looking at Maq’a.”

“And you don’t have a name.”

“Exactly,” the priestess said. She threaded her fingers through her hair and looked at Mereuka. “I think your grandfather sacrificed too many horses for Anaxitho.”

“They were meant to be his funeral feast,” Mereuka said. “So Ehodu would finish mourning, and he’d go away.”

“But he was alive. I don’t know what happens in the universe when you sacrifice to a person who’s still alive. I don’t think anyone does.”

“Why, is it a sin?”

“I don’t _thiiiiink_ so,” the priestess said, steepling her fingers on her knees. “I just don’t think anyone’s done it before. I will talk to the oracle for Maq’a the next time I’m at the temple, maybe she’ll know.”

A thin prickling fear started walking up Mereuka’s back. The priestess noticed and set eyes on her. The priestess wasn’t inscrutable and she was persuasive without saying anything. Mareuka said, “I know the Immortal is just an epithet, but what if it isn’t?”

And the priestess sucked in a breath so fast that the sea-silk in her veil stuck to her teeth. She wiped at her mouth. They knew what that meant. _Húqrei_ , the worst sin. The mocking of the gods by becoming them. And the priestess suddenly put that together with the horses killed on the steps of the palace by the weeping Ehodu for a man who was not dead but alive, alive and a slave. Mereuka felt quite ill.

It was not the next day, or the day after, and it was not on the steps of the palace. It took til the full moon; the priestess had to send runners around the island. They went in procession down to the beach, as many thousands as could crowd at the shore, and they built a pyre. Horses and bulls for the Earthcracker, grain for Maq’a, fresh-caught dolphins for the Sea Mother, stones for the Sky Father, jars of olive oil for the Hunters, for any gods that listened. The thousands of people on the shore did not know why they were being taken for this sacrifice but they were satisfied that the priestess had heard from the gods, and frankly they were quite relieved. Years ago, there had been a commotion of a priest on one of the islands to the east, and the god that had so riled the priest – no one was quite sure anymore which god it was – had commanded youths to take up glittering spears and go north. The madness had disrupted trade for some time. It was with sadness but no small sense of resigned calm that the people ruled by the palace of Isaaq’a allowed their seven chosen sons and seven chosen daughters to be dragged up to the sacred fire on the shore. It did not matter that the chosen children wept and howled; the gods understand the human need to delay the inevitable. Sometimes facing death without whining is in and of itself the sin of _h_ _úqrei._

Enaysdawon spoke. The ground rumbled just enough for the vibrations to shiver one’s bones. The sea, suddenly choppy, licked around the pyre, and the crowd held their breath, but then the water calmed, and the massive fire continued burning. The priestess wept, overcome by the god’s acceptance. The god was not offended by Ehodu’s love for his son. The gods knew that everyone on Isaaq’a was trying, and that they respected the wrathful love. The priestess stayed on the beach all night, crying and shuddering, and it wasn’t til the fire burned out, three days later, that Mereuka dared approach her with a sackful of wine and a plate of sweets. The priestess’ veil was scorched but she was alive, and she drank the wine-sack like a child dying of thirst.

Something caught Mereuka’s eye as she shifted, watching the ashes on the beach shift. A coil. A gold coil. It did not bother her too much. She knelt next to the priestess and, with help from the accompanying bodyguard, fed her honeycake.

//

Mereuka saw the ship coming in from the balcony, but she paid it no attention – ships came to Isaaq’a all the time, carrying barley and olive oil, even in winter. It was just a ship. And it was hours later before she recognized the commotion collecting downstairs. She came down to the steps of the plaza and an arm from the priestess stopped her from going too far outside. The Immortal was where Ehodu had stood, and he was shaking. He ran like a jackrabbit. He screamed.

And Mereuka knew then that the story they told about Ehodu Qelemakos wasn’t true. You won’t care if it’s a spirit or not. You would die to touch the face that looked like him.

There was a feast that night. The Immortal stood in the rain-catching pool with the new man, who was about his age and had brown hair styled in the same womanish braid. The new man wore the clothes of the summer sea, but his knives were different, and he couldn’t speak, except to Anaxitho. He seemed to be a little ill, but most people were taken slightly ill when they came off a ship. He clutched onto the Immortal like a brother.

“He is Essem, Essem who is Qelemakos,” Anaxitho said, and he kissed the man on the mouth, as you did when naming babies, when you breathed the life-spirit in. The rest of the feast applauded, unsure exactly of what was happening but happy for the Immortal's delight.

The priestess sucked her breath in through her teeth. Mereuka locked eyes with her and her stomach hurt. She left the feast, went upstairs. She leaned on the balcony and crinkled her nose. Something smelled odd.

"Look," the priestess said, and she pointed. Over the horizon, very far away, a star burning, bright as day.

Mereuka noticed a patch of dust on her hand. She wiped it away, and it reappeared. The ashes from the pyre on the beach, transformed. She looked at the priestess, and the Earthcracker whispered; it wasn't enough to shake the foundations of the people at the feast below, but three stories up, they could feel it coming up through their sandals.

"I think," the priestess said, quite cautiously, "I think the gods must love Anaxitho Qelemakos _anax_ -Isaaq'aoi very much. Not just the Earthshaker. All of them."

"They must love all Qelemako, any far-traveler, very much."

"That man included."

"And my grandfather."

The girls looked at the sea.

"It's a lot to bear," Mereuka said, just as cautiously. "It must be terribly hard. I suppose at some point you stop wanting their favor."

The ash began to drift down in earnest. Mereuka slipped her arm around the priestess.

"My name is this," the priestess said. 

She said it. The wind accepted her veil, took it out of sight. They watched the star on the horizon. They watched it burn.

**Author's Note:**

> Backforming Isaaq'a - Mycenean Greek didn't have a voiceless dental fricative /th/ but it did have /s/. [Q] splits to b-p-t-k in Ancient Greek. (Pretend that I remembered that part when forming Anaxitho's name. Internally correct Anaxitho to Wanaq'iso.) Isaaq'a - Ithaca. Reuq'a - Lefka. Tafos - Taphos. Qelemakos - in Proto-Indo-European it would be something like ku̯el-e-mag̑hos, which fucks me up a bit tht it's so recognizable? The son of the man who came back from the place where the god of the sea and earthquakes split the fortress could be as old as the snake in the rock.
> 
> Mereuka is a combination of me-ri (honey) and reu-ka (white, same element in Reuq'a, pretend the k is there because the consonant started shifting more concretely to /k/ in personal names first or...something...pretend the Q is a glottal stop idk). Her sister is Winds (think anenome), her brother-in-law is Scarlet/Madder Horse (think: Anaxitho: kingly horse), her mother is Horse-Lady (itho/alia), her father Ambistrato is two/both/dual armies. [Q]elemakos became Telemachus; I know it probably refers to archery but also, no. Maq'a should be Maga, extant g-for-q by the time the inscription showed up but mmmm fuck that (ma/ga, mother/earth - lose the ma, the a in ga becomes a diphthong, diphthong becomes differentiated enough that it grammatically needs the addition of a feminine gender marker, end up with Gaia). I'm sort of combining the Hekla and Thera eruptions, both of which are a couple centuries out of step of Tollense. Title again from Schleicher's Fable.  
>    
> Do I know absolute fuck about material culture? Still no.  
> Do I know how to decline anything in Greek? Absolutely not. (though I am fairly sure it is one Qelemakos, two Qelemako, and I at least kept my genitives consistent.)  
> Have I reread The King Must Die a few times? Yep.  
> volcanoes? erupted. plagues? hinted at. bronze age? collapsed. i am forcibly ejected from the mycenaean greek page on wikipedia  
> . 
> 
> If I gifted this to you, you commented on the original. Happy blast from the past.


End file.
